


Reclamation

by cardinalrachelieu



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Killjoys Crossover, Slow Burn, Smut, Space Bounty Hunter AU, or (as i fondly refer to it) 'acotar in space 2: electric boogaloo'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu
Summary: Feyre died that day, on the ship; felt death's talons curl into her, claiming her, silencing her. This is the story of how she learned to live again.AKA the ACoMaF/Killjoys crossover fic no one ever asked for.





	1. Prologue I: Death

**Author's Note:**

> huge shout out to the absolute _best_ friend and beta ever, [lauren](http://johnnyjaaqobis.tumblr.com). girl, you've been absolutely vital during this process and this story has been greatly improved by your involvement. thanks for cheering me on and doctoring this mess into something intelligible. in the words of kevin durant, "you da real mvp."
> 
> i started this project towards the end of september, and it grew and grew until it became something i never expected. what better way to ring in the new year than by starting to publish this monster? anyway, i hope you love it as much as i do. 
> 
> <3

Darkness. Cold, suffocating, inky darkness. It surrounded me, consumed me, seeped into my bones, blotted out every ember of who I was until there was nothing left.

“Aww, I think she might be losing her nerve,” she said to no one in particular. Her words were velvet-laced death and a cruel, knowing smile curled the edges of her rouged lips upward. She would win. She would _always_ win.

I was a fool to have ever expected anything less.

A constant, high-pitched pinging began to sound as soon as I completed the series of commands to launch a distress beacon. The likelihood of someone noticing it in time to save me was low, but I had to try—had to at least attempt to make it out of this alive. For them. For _him_.

Tendrils of ice snaked along a console, framing the view screen that projected her likeness. The rich crimson of her hair and the emptiness of her eyes offset the almost supernatural paleness of her skin. It was as though she’d never stood in the sun a day in her life. Perhaps she never had. Perhaps she could only exist—only survive—in the shadows where the malice in her soul might be mistaken for just another patch of darkness.

The witch had enslaved half the Quad in a matter of months—a graceless coup that had involved muzzling her true nature just long enough to convince our leaders that she could be trusted, that she was nothing more than a harmless and well-intentioned scientist working to preserve and advance humanity—and was well on her way to encasing the other half in her cruel grip.

It still didn’t seem possible to me that one person could wreak so much havoc, could so thoroughly undo years and years of hard won peace treaties, could convince so many that she simply wanted to conduct scientific research for the betterment of all those residing in the Quad.

Bullshit. It had all been bullshit, and our rulers had fallen for it, had willingly stepped into her orbit having mistaken her for a bright, luminous star rather than the singularity she was instead proving to be. And, like with all black holes, none of us could escape now that we’d crossed her event horizon.

 _She can’t be human,_ I’d thought when she’d offered me—no, trapped me into taking the deal. That’s how she’d gotten to this point in the first place—cornering people until they had no choice but to submit to her will. _No human could treat someone this way._

But she was. And she did.

A vein of ice crawled up the tips of my gloved hands—stained red with the blood of others—until I couldn’t focus on anything but its biting sting. Frosted harbingers of death and likely the last thing I’d ever feel.

“Not—not f—fair,” I choked.

It wouldn’t be long now. A solitary red light flickered. On and off. On and off. _HULL BREACH. LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS INOPERATIVE._ _ABANDON SHIP_ , read the monitor in angry, capital letters.

“I’m sorry, dear. It’s not your fault—truly,” she laughed, hollow and predatory. “You were doomed to fail eventually. Too bad about your friends, though.”

The precious little atmosphere trapped in the tiny shuttle had almost completely vented into space. My hand pressed tighter to the ever-lengthening breach, a final, futile line of defense against a total loss of pressure.

“Let them go,” I rasped between breaths, the air growing thinner by the second despite my efforts to plug the leak.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be doing that.” She clicked her tongue in finality, ignoring my plea.

“Y—you p—“ I gulped down the air in great, heaving breaths. Not enough. There wasn’t enough. “You promised,” I managed, my voice raw, each syllable a marathon.

Her eyes glinted and her lithe body straightened to its full height as she crowded in close to the camera. “I lied,” she hissed, baring her teeth.

What I’d done… Who I’d hurt… Nothing. It had all been for nothing.

The edges of my vision swam with blackness as I struggled to keep my eyes open. My knees nearly buckled beneath me before I was able to lock them again, and my shoulder slumped against the wall, the muscles under my chilled skin failing me one by one. It would be so easy to just rest… only for a minute.

_Fight._

I had to fight—had to save them, had to save _him_.

“Please,” I mouthed, the high-pitched whistle of the escaping oxygen drowning out any sound I might’ve made.

She considered me for a moment before that dreadful smile crept over her face once more. “No,” she purred.

And then everything went dark.


	2. Prologue II: Rebirth

Searing pain engulfed my body, harsh as the solar flares that ravaged Arkyn’s atmosphere, pulling me from the soothing embrace of nothingness. I fought against it, retreating further and further into myself.

There was a brief moment of reprieve, then lightning spread through my limbs again. Distantly, I could hear someone calling— _yelling_ —my name, cursing me for giving up.

“Not yet. Please, not yet,” they prayed, an electronic whine building and building until—

Bright, blinding white exploded across my consciousness as my back arched and I flung myself up to sitting.

 _I can’t see I can’t see I can’t s_ — I was frozen. Trembling. Panicked. My lungs burned and my chest ached and I couldn’t _see_.

“Breathe, Feyre,” the voice commanded. “Just breathe.”

So I did.

Each time I drew breath it felt like glass splinters were shredding my lungs.

Slowly, the brightness around me dimmed and violet eyes held mine as I searched and searched and searched for an explanation.

Crisp blue sheets. Sterile metal trays. A defibrillator and shears. Flickering fluorescent lights.

Medical bay.

I was on one of the roll-away beds, the kind you threw someone on when they were in bad enough shape that they couldn’t make it to the infirmary under the power of their own two feet. My toes didn’t quite reach the floor, and so I let them hang unimpeded off the side of the bed.

Cautiously, my eyes swept my surroundings and I suddenly realized… The medical equipment, the way my jumpsuit—blood staining almost every inch of it—was cut away from my torso, the stinging pain that lingered just under my breastbone…

His tanned skin against the diffused white backdrop of a privacy sheet captured my attention. _Rhysand_ , I remembered. His name was Rhysand.

 _Why was_ he—

The room spun and my vision blurred and I must’ve swayed to the side because the next thing I felt was a strong hand closing around my forearm—steadying me, anchoring me. In that moment his touch was my only tether to the world. It focused me, grounded me. I felt so delicate, so fragile, like I might shatter at the faintest disturbance.

I opened my mouth three times before any sound came out, and even then it was raspy and barely audible. “I—”

“You’re okay,” he interrupted, breathing the words once more as if to convince himself of their truth.

“I…” _died._ It was the thought I didn’t dare finish, the thought he was begging me not to voice out loud. My knuckles curled around the edge of the gurney as the truth sank through my skin, through my muscles, into the core of my being.

In response, his thumb smoothed over the skin at my jaw, fingers pressing softly into the nape of my neck to anchor the movement. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him like this before—with concern in his eyes—as he drew ragged breaths, nostrils flaring.

Control. He was always in such perfect control. But now he seemed almost… frantic.

We’d only ever interacted from afar. From a safe, measured distance apart. It was inevitable that our teams ran into each other. Certain corners of the Quad drew more Warrants their way. Wanted people were generally shunned by the Prythian elite—unless they had enough joy to buy a blind eye—which meant they could hide on Vallahan or blend in on Westerley. Most chose the latter, smuggling themselves across the Wall because they found the company on the planet known for commerce, crime, and alcohol production to be more their speed.

It hadn’t always been that way, Father had once explained, and remnants of a more civilized era still lingered, but, for all intents and purposes, Westerley—at least the Westerley I knew—was a den of impropriety, save for a few cultured havens spread across the few still-habitable continents.

Rhysand’s team had a reputation of being ruthless—one of the few Level Five teams in existence—and, though he was the leader, as Lucien had explained, all of them were deadly. The one with silver eyes, however, was the true demon of the group. “ _Should you ever find yourself alone with them... run,”_ he’d warned.

Once, months ago, I’d gotten trapped at a port Rhysand and his team had effectively taken hostage while they tried to locate a slimy, underhanded con-man wanted for snitching on the wrong people. _“Cooperate and this’ll be over soon,”_ the blonde-haired woman had instructed. The two dark-haired brutes had sunk into the shadows while she wove through the crowd, twirling a blade effortlessly as she walked, as though she always spun a deadly weapon between her delicate fingers. Her caramel colored eyes had swept over us, judging the truth in our mannerisms as she searched for any hint of the man in question.

I’d caught a glimpse of the raw power Rhysand kept on such a tight leash, saw the way he so casually broke the minds and bodies of those dumb enough to defy him or attempt deception. At times it looked like he… like he actually enjoyed their expressions of terror. I should’ve been scared… should’ve been, but wasn’t.

And now… now our breaths were mixing together, and I was acutely aware that he smelled of salt and citrus and that the strands of his hair were more of a midnight blue than a true black and—

“Feyre!” I knew that voice, knew I should be happy to hear it—be relieved that he was alive… but all I could focus on was the way Rhysand blinked once, twice, and then withdrew his hands from my body. He schooled his features into something akin to boredom. As though it was a great chore to be near me. As though it had been an inconvenience to drag me back to the land of the living from the cliff’s edge off which I’d been dangling.

A phantom heat lingered in the places his palms had rested just moments ago, and I couldn’t help the way I leaned toward him as he took a step back from me.

Tamlin barreled into the room a heartbeat later, wide-eyed and breathless. “Feyre, thank the Mother,” he breathed, stalking over to where I was perched with my legs draped over the edge of the medical bed.

I’d been convinced I’d never see him again when the shields had failed and the hull had ruptured, leaking precious, life-sustaining oxygen into the cold vacuum of space. I’d thought of the lines of his face, the way bits of gold reflected in his emerald eyes when the light hit them _just so_ , the way he smelled of the woods on Westerley just after the first freeze. I'd thought of how my failure had meant he’d be doomed to a lifetime of servitude, how those eyes would dull and the light in them would eventually be snuffed out. I’d thought of how his absence would doom my sisters—my _family_ —to poverty again, how the money would suddenly just stop and they would likely never know why.

Fingers fisted in my hair as he drew me close.

 _“He’ll make such a nice pet,”_ she’d taunted, taking perverse pleasure in watching him recoil from her touch as I looked on helplessly, unable to challenge her, lest she renege on the already tenuous deal and kill them all anyway.

Every miserable second, every awful thing I’d done—it had all been worth it. He was _safe_ . My sisters were _safe_.

 _“I think I’ll keep him for myself.”_ Her words echoed in my mind, as did the memory of how she’d flashed a sadistic smile my direction—a cruel reminder of what failing her would mean. Of what she would do to him and everyone else I loved if I made the mistake of not delivering on her demands. I shuddered at the thought of what that might have meant.

Tamlin’s body pressed tighter against mine, arms shaking wildly and crushing me to him protectively, urgently. He was warm and solid and _safe_ , and I focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest that I’d been so sure I’d never feel again.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale—_

“So lovely to see the happy couple reunited,” Rhysand drawled, breaking the spell and taking slow, even steps toward us.

I felt the cage of his arms tighten around me in response… shielding me, protecting me. “Get the hell out,” Tamlin growled, not really bothering to even look Rhysand in the eyes.

He looked so different, so… _normal_ now compared to when I’d seen him previously. A blend of carbon fiber and leather, vacuum formed pads covered his joints, and straps of the stuff wound around his torso, encasing his most vulnerable parts. Armor, I realized. He was wearing armor. It was so unlike the finely made, close-cropped suits he normally donned, and I now saw just how much strength those well-tailored jackets hid from view, how much of an illusion they created.

With feline grace, Rhysand stalked around us, dropping his chin slightly so his mouth was next to Tamlin’s ear. “That’s twice you owe me now,” Rhysand bit out, the softness from moments ago gone, replaced by a venom that made my hair stand on end.

At that Tamlin _did_ meet his gaze. One second. Two seconds. “Feyre, can you walk?” He kept his eyes trained on Rhysand, as though he were some predator coiled and ready to lunge at the slightest provocation.

I swung my legs, trying to test the strength of my muscles. Everything seemed to be responsive enough. My chest still throbbed, head still felt like it had been cleaved in two, but I was mostly confident that I could walk. “I think so, yeah.”

“Good. We’re leaving.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Rhysand’s mouth quirked to the side in a way that told me he’d won whatever silent battle they’d been having, and he held Tamlin’s merciless stare for a second longer before looking to me. “Until next time, Feyre darling.”

 

* * *

 

Had he been physically able, Tamlin likely would’ve just carried me off the ship. As it were, though, the injuries Amarantha had given him proved to be too great a handicap. The muscles would heal eventually… probably. Whether or not he would regain feeling in parts of his arm was another question entirely. I tried not to think about what his flesh might look like underneath the medical sleeve encasing his arm and part of his shoulder.

Patience wasn’t exactly one of his virtues, but he was patient with me as I trailed behind him on our way off Rhysand’s ship, holding my hand and pausing when I walked a bit slower than he probably would’ve liked. Every few moments he would glance at me, as though he were checking to make sure I hadn’t disappeared.

Tamlin had realized quickly that the blood covering me wasn’t my own, and he’d shown me a great mercy by not asking where it had come from. He’d offered me a change of clothes, but apart from that made no indication that he’d noticed the way red blotches coated me from head to toe—the stains thickest and darkest on the fabric around my wrists.

He was quiet—so quiet—as we made our way back to Alis, the periodic squeeze of his hand on mine the only indication that he felt anything.

 _He’s trying to keep it together,_ I realized. And so I stopped judging his lack of a visible reaction so harshly, stopped comparing our traumas and the way we’d inadvertently chosen to process them.

Lucien came running towards us—face wrought with concern—the second we set foot back on Alis. His bionic eye was working overtime trying to assess where the wounds were on my body. Finally, he seemed to figure out that the blood hadn’t come from me, and he, like Tamlin, didn’t press the matter. I was grateful for at least that.

Immediately, Tamlin ushered me into his quarters, offering me clean clothes and a hot shower. I agreed eagerly, desperate to get the memories of the past day as far away from me as possible. He turned the water on and made to leave, but I refused to let go of his hand.

Not after everything we’d just been through. I couldn’t bear to be apart from him for another second. So he, too, stripped down and stepped underneath the stream of near-scalding water along with me.

And there, in the privacy of his washroom, Tamlin buried his face in my neck, arms pulling me closer, closer, closer as he wept. The tears I’d been holding back stung my eyes and burned hot against my cheeks as they fell, getting washed away almost as soon as they touched skin.

My chest burned and my head was ringing and my fingertips felt like they might never fully thaw, but I didn’t care because he was alive, he was free, and he was _safe_. We were all _safe_.


	3. Chapter One: Tamlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn of Feyre's relationships.

Breaking in was the easy part. Making it look like everything had remained untouched, now that… that required a bit more skill.

I reconnected the delicate wiring behind the keypad, tucking the blue strand underneath the green one—just as it had been before I’d disturbed it ten minutes ago. My hands reached for the aluminum panel resting on the floor near where I knelt—cheap and entirely too easy to pry away without leaving any marks. One of the screws hadn’t been tightened all the way before I’d removed it, some of the threads visible over the metal plate, and I made sure to replicate that oversight as I twisted the bolt back into place.

I looked over my work, making sure everything looked as if it hadn’t been touched—down to the almost imperceptible tilt of the panel just underneath the worn keypad, and—

“Well, well,” a golden voice chimed from behind me, and my knuckles slammed violently into the door from the way I jerked in surprise. “What have we here?”

“I locked myself out,” I said, not yet turning around—not yet trusting my face to remain neutral through the lie. There was a small chance the man confronting me was actually the owner of the apartment, but judging by the fact he hadn’t flogged me on the spot, I considered it unlikely.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” I responded confidently, finally rounding to meet my hecklers head on.

_Killjoys. Shit. Two of them._

The RAC patch on the their jacket sleeves was a dead giveaway, and I tried—desperately—not to let the terror I felt deep in my gut flash over my face.

“You’re Mr. LaCroix?” His was the voice I’d heard a moment ago, and he was also the one standing closer to me.

“He’s my uncle,” I said, shifting my eyes between them.

“Is that so?” He had a knowing smirk chiseled into his features, and that honeyed voice matched the yellow of his hair.

“Yes. If you’ll excuse me—”

The red-haired one standing farther back stepped in my path as his friend said, “Why the rush?”

“People are expecting me,” I replied evenly, hoping— _praying_ —it would be enough to deter them. I knew it wouldn’t be. But it didn’t hurt to try.

“They can wait.”

“Your pockets,” the one with auburn hair ordered, and the way that metal eye was whirring made me think he could see straight through my clothing to the drive tucked safely next to my breast. “Empty them.”

“No,” I said defiantly.

“I missed the part where that was a request. Empty them,” he commanded. Then, when I didn’t immediately submit to his will, “Now.”

I tensed my muscles and rooted my feet in place. “No.” If they wanted it, they were going to have to fight me for it. Delivery of these photos was the only thing that would guarantee me—and, by extension, the rest of my family—a meal this evening.

“We can settle this here, or we can drag your ass back to the ship. Either way, you’re going to hand over that drive.” So then he could see through the layers of fabric.

“Easy, Lucien,” the taller of the two said. Then, to me, “What’s your name?”

I grit my teeth and held my chin a bit higher.

“Fine, I’ll just call you Ms. LaCroix.”

“This is a waste of time,” the red-haired one—Lucien—grumbled, but his concern was dismissed by a half-raised palm.

“Tell me, Ms. LaCroix, do you break into places often?”

Silence.

“It’s a rare gift to be able to leave a scene just as you found it. How would you like to put those skills to use for a cause?” His eyes were the deepest shade of green I’d ever seen. Striking. And now that I was truly looking—now that the initial surge of adrenaline was fading—so was the rest of his face. There was a sort of rugged beauty to his features—hard and soft all at once. Something about the way he held me in his gaze—like I might break if he stared too intensely—made me want to trust him. But trust was a dangerous thing in these parts. Trust got people killed.

“What happens if I refuse?”

Lucien laughed—a hollow sound that sent a chill down my arms. “We tell the RAC you decided to interfere with a Warrant and let them deal with your attitude.”

“Tell you what, Ms. LaCroix,” the one closest to me interceded, before I had a chance to bark in protest and dig myself into an even deeper hole. “I’ll make this an easy decision. You come with us, let us have the files we were contracted to retrieve, and I’ll give you a cut of the earnings.”

I glared at him, refusing to move. I could tell Lucien wanted to make some comment—probably about me not being worth the trouble—but he held his tongue.

“I bet someone offered you—what—fifty joy to retrieve it?”

 _Twenty,_ I thought, though I stayed silent and did my best to keep my face unreadable.

“I can promise you three times that. Easily. And more payouts just like it if you continue to work with us.”

It was an effort to keep my jaw from dropping. A bounty that size could feed my family for weeks. I might even be able to purchase new clothes. Everyone else had gotten replacements the last time I’d saved up enough money, but there just hadn’t been enough joy to justify buying myself a new shirt and trousers—not if we’d wanted to eat that week. Elain did her best to patch the tattered garments, but they were falling apart day by day, and soon they would be more holes than fabric.

“Let’s say I agree to come with you—which I’m not, I want to be clear.” I worried my lip between my teeth as I tried to settle on the phrasing of my question. Finally, quietly but with enough force that I hoped I still sounded like I had some fight left in me, I asked, “What’s to prevent you from forcibly taking it from me the second we’re alone and I can’t call or help?”

“We’re Killjoys, not thugs,” Lucien scoffed, and he sounded genuinely offended by my insinuation.

“I didn’t realize there was a difference,” I hissed back. It was Killjoys who’d wrecked my father’s knee. It was Killjoys who’d damned us to a life of poverty and near starvation. Thug seemed like too weak a word, and I wanted to scream at him for daring to laugh at my apprehension.

“I assure you—on my life—no harm will come to you, Ms. LaCroix. You would be a member of my team and receive all the benefits and protections that come along with that role,” he said, and the weight in his words told me he wasn’t exaggerating. “There’s a whole world out there just waiting to be broken into, y’know,” he added a moment later, tone just on the cusp of being playful.

Space. For the longest time I’d thought Father had been making up the other planets, the ships built to carry people between them, the Courts and Lords and Queens and _life_ outside what I could see with my own two eyes. It had terrified me, when I figured out he hadn’t exaggerated the scope of the region, and I’d convinced myself that I would be happy to spend the rest of my days with both feet firmly on the cold, dying ground.

But… I’d always wondered what the rest of the Quad had to offer—if each corner of it was as destitute as the slums here on Westerley. Father had spoken of opulent cities and royal families whenever he used to return from his travels abroad, his business of trading in rarities and advising on investments granting him passage off the planet.

 _“Think of rooms the size of our house!”_ he’d once said, back when we’d lived in an actual home. I doubt he’d even remember mentioning it if I brought it up, but that description had stuck in my mind ever since he’d said it over eight years ago.

And I might not ever get another chance to leave, not unless our gatekeepers magically decided to bring down the Wall—the cursed barrier that kept all of Westerley in and all the rest of the Quad out. The only way to legally pass through it was to be one of the Prythian elite, be a merchant, or be a Killjoy.

Like the two standing in front of me. Offering me a job.

“It’s Feyre,” I said harshly.

“I’m sorry?”

“My name. It’s Feyre. If we’re going to work together, you might as well call me the right thing.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Feyre,” he said, gingerly lifting the backs of my fingers to brush against his lips, and the gesture was so genuinely disarming that I didn’t think to pull away.

He dropped my hand a heartbeat later and looked back to Lucien, raising an eyebrow expectantly toward his companion.

“Thrilled,” he said sarcastically.

 

* * *

 

Thirteen months, three weeks, and five days. That’s how long it had been since that fateful, cursed day on Westerley when Tamlin had caught me breaking and entering. In many ways he’d saved me when he cornered me into working with him, but recently I’d been considering the merits of again going solo and not having to depend on others—or be bound to them, more accurately.

Perhaps then I could escape situations like the one we currently found ourselves in.

I overcorrected after knocking into Lucien, and my shoulder paid the price as it slammed into the corner of the wall I was rounding. He’d darted in front of me unexpectedly, and I’d been unable to alter my vector at full speed. Sheer luck had kept me from dislocating it, but the blossoming ache deep within the bone told me I’d be feeling the effects of that misstep for a solid week.

In the two months since Amarantha’s demise, everything had gone to shit. Half a cycle ago, we were one of the strongest teams on this side of the Quad. On more than one occasion, our services had been requested directly, and we always— _always_ —delivered. But recently… recently we were functioning about as well as a transport ship with a fried hyperdrive. Three mission’s we’d gone on, and from three mission’s we’d come back empty handed.

It was the second bullet whizzing past my ear that caused me to snap, “Would you two stop arguing and do your _fucking_ jobs!?”

Tamlin and Lucien whirled on the spot, mouths agape at my boldness. I’d yelled at them in the past, certainly, but never with such vitriol in my tone.

Ianthe waited a beat before echoing me, shouting, “Well don’t just stand there!”

She looked so out of place crouched against the cargo container, her midnight blue, floor length gown clinging to each and every curve of her body. She’d selected it herself—said that it was conservative enough to be party appropriate but risque enough to draw the attention of—and therefore distract—all in attendance.

Several curls had broken free from the hairpins she’d secured in place earlier in the evening, and she repositioned her leg to grip the fabric of her dress roughly between her fingers before ripping the slit the rest of the way up her thigh, shattering the illusion she had ever been royalty.

The costume had worked well enough to get us in the door but now we were paying for her inexperience with Dawn Court customs and traditions. And I knew I shouldn’t blame her for not perfectly knowing all thirty-seven lines of pleasantries normally exchanged between Dawn Court hosts and guests, but this was the fourth time her carelessness had put us in a tight spot in just as many missions.

Lucien raised his rifle—a smoky, tarnished blue color and one of the only plasma-based weapons we owned—and fired three quick shots across the warehouse, driving back the armed guards who had been sent to intercept us.

I turned my attention back to the solid metal box in front of me.

“Feyre, leave it!” Tamlin ordered. “It’s not worth it!”

 _I can do this,_ I told myself, ignoring his command.

My hands reached for the palm-sized dials with a practiced control which belied my unstable nerves and lack of confidence.

“Feyre!” he yelled again, his voice lost to me over the thundering sound of my own racing heart. If he wanted me to abandon it, he’d have to drag me away kicking and screaming.

I refused to fail again—not twice in a row, and not on the same task.

Adrenaline coursed through me and caused my fingers to shake as I resettled my hand over the manual lock and took a slow, centering breath. Fingerprints and retinal scans and other bio-coded combinations could be forged. It wasn’t easy, but it could certainly be done. The skill and artistry required to break into an SK-900, however, was rare enough to make it the single most popular security measure used by the rich and powerful.

It was a precaution taken for only for the most valuable items—the ones people desired to keep secured even if all other electronic safeguards had been overcome—one unit alone costing the equivalent of a small asteroid mine, and it was quite literally built into the ground, anchored in place by tempered steel beams extending for meters in each direction. Even if someone did get close enough to be a threat, there wasn’t a way to disengage the chamber from the rest of the safe—which meant a thief would have to crack into it then and there.

Cautiously, my fingers twisted the dials in tandem, pressure responsive sensors lining the blank knobs. Both mechanisms had to be rotated in just the right way and at just the right speed, pauses in motion just as critical as the rotations themselves. The likelihood of being able to break into a an SK-900 without some intimate knowledge of its owner’s mannerisms and psyche was nigh impossible.

Fortunately for us, I had something even better—years upon years of practice cracking into my father’s own model he’d kept in his office, though it had been far less… finicky than the present version. In truth, he’d purchased the sister-model to this one—the SK-450. While still pricey, it was significantly more affordable and designed to sit above ground.

There was a hard reset encoded into the system, much like a skeleton key in case the safe’s original owner expired before its contents were able to be retrieved. I had discovered the sequence on accident one summer on Westerley when my greatest care in the world was which type of fruit I’d have for breakfast. It had taken me weeks of failures afterward to figure out exactly which combination of my motions had been the key to unlocking it, and then months of practice before I was able to repeat the action with some regularity. I’d given up for days at a time, angry at myself for wasting untold hours on an impossible task.

Eventually, though, I’d mastered it, and now it was time to put the parlor trick to use.

Another gunshot. “Any day now, Feyre,” Lucien hummed, words blurring together.

I transported myself back to the floor of my father’s study, allowing my eyes to flutter shut as I let the familiarity of the memory guide my movements.

Midday. I always practiced the combination midday when Father was out of the office and my sisters were busy with their studies. I could almost feel the beam of sunlight on my back as I twisted the dials, warming and relaxing me as I worked.

_Left. Pause. Just a bit more pressure on the right knob. Left again. Then quickly right. Pause when the bones in your wrist crackle. Right. Push harder with your left index finger. One. Two. Thr—sharp left._

Once I’d figured out the series of movements, I’d practiced them non-stop for five hours. If I could get into the rhythm of it, I found it to be as automatic as reciting my alphabet.

_Thunk._

Tamlin dove across the room just in time to tackle me out of the patch of a well-aimed blaster shot. Lucien fired back before lunging toward the safe to grab the pile of data disks housed within. The next sound I heard was Ianthe’s voice urging us toward her position where she held a door propped open for our impending exit. I locked eyes with her and I swore I saw disappointment reflected back at me.

Tamlin gripped my waist and shoved, throwing me toward safety. I stumbled over myself as I tried to find my footing again, and Lucien’s hand gripped my elbow to steady me.

“Move!” Tamlin barked, launching himself forward.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you did that,” he said, tone scathing and eyes hard as granite. “It was reckless, Feyre.”

“I didn’t see anyone else stepping up to get the job done! You all were too busy arguing about which plan was the worst.” Had I put the team in danger? Probably. But that was part of the job. No one went into this line of work with the expectation of living behind a protective curtain.

“It was reckless, and I told you to stand down,” he scolded.

For all the times we’d had this argument, I shouldn’t have been shocked by the coldness in his tone, but it cut me to my core. He never used to talk to me like this, never used to treat me like a helpless, disobedient child. But now it had become as common and predictable as the moon rise every evening on Westerley.

“And risk showing up empty handed tomorrow?” The only thing worse than failing to deliver on a Warrant was failing to deliver on a Warrant for the second time in a row. We’d botched our first contract and had mercifully been given a second shot. Hybern Corp. likely wouldn’t have provided us with a third opportunity to redeem ourselves if we’d been unsuccessful yet again. “I’d rather be suspended over a pool of water wraiths.”

Nasty things, they were—all teeth and talons and insatiable appetites for fresh prey. It was an effort not to shudder at the thought.

“I’m supposed to be able to depend on you—trust you with my _life_ —”

“I think I’ve proven that you can trust me with your life,” I hissed.

The ghost of that preternatural cold, icy and depthless, crept over my skin, taking me back to those moments on the darkened, cramped shuttle just before everything had gone black. I shivered.

And then anger. White hot. Anger at Tamlin for throwing around words like _trust_ and _life_ so carelessly. Had he so quickly forgotten the cost of his freedom? The lengths to which I’d stretched myself, stretched my spirit until it was as thin as a sheet of gossamer, to save him and everyone else in this Mother-forsaken sector of the galaxy from her poisoned grip?

“That’s not fair, and you know it.”

I didn’t care if it was manipulative. It also happened to be true. He’d do well to remember my sacrifices. Remember that he hadn’t been there to catch me when I fell. Remember that I had so thoroughly wrecked myself out of love for him and that he was returning the favor by chastising me.

“Neither is yelling at me for _doing my job_.” It was, after all, why he’d recruited me in the first place. I had a gift. And, as much as we butted heads, he did love me and he _was_ helping me make it official. In just a few more months I’d be ready for the test, and then I‘d be a full-blown RAC Agent.

“Putting yourself and this team in unnecessary danger isn’t doing your job!” Though he didn’t yell them, the force he put behind the words caught me off guard.

“I don’t see what the big deal is!” I laughed nervously, exhaustion creeping through my bones and blurring the edges of my consciousness. “We got the disks. So _what_ if it was a bit of a close call? Lucien,” I said earnestly, “back me up here.”

Never once had I witnessed Lucien openly challenge his ex-Captain, and now was no different. For all his bravado and monologues about doing the right thing, he remained passive and silent as his friend—his superior—tore into me. The only indication he was sympathetic to my plight was the way he ducked his head in shame and avoided my gaze.

I narrowed my eyes into slits and pressed my teeth together until I felt a dull ache along my jaw. Lucien made the mistake of meeting my stare a moment later, and I flashed him a hollow, forced smile.  

 _Coward_ , it said.

“We’ll talk about this later.” Tamlin’s dismissive tone recaptured my attention, but he was already turning on his heel to leave before I could reply. He always did that, always left when things got uncomfortable.

It was infuriating.

He’d gotten worse about it in the recent months, and though I understood how thoroughly—how completely—the poison from Amarantha’s piercing claws had invaded his psyche—had settled into his soul—I resented him for not being more resilient to it. I resented him for not fighting back.

I resented him, I realized, for not being the one to rescue me, for failing to show up when I’d needed him the most. I resented him for his protective nature that was starting to feel like a prison with each passing day. And I resented him for taking out the product of his fears on me now—now, after stability had been restored to the Quad and the threat of an enslaved populace subjected to horrific human-nanite experiments had been eased.

Rage swept through me, tried to consume me whole, but I clamped down and instead stretched my neck to yell, “A thank you would be nice!” Tamlin’s gait didn’t so much as falter. I might as well have been speaking to a bulkhead for all the reaction I got from him.

I huffed a sigh, nails digging angry red crescent moons into the skin of my palms as I flexed the muscles in my arms. I nearly ran into Ianthe when I spun around to leave, and I swear she was smiling—actually _smiling_ —at me, as if Tamlin _hadn’t_ just laid into me.

Over the past few months—and even before Amarantha—she’d always been the one to remind me why I loved Tamlin. And I knew she’d done the same for him.

And we did. Love each other. It had just become easier to forget as of late.

She set her sights on Lucien, and it suddenly made sense why she’d appeared to be happy a moment ago. Ianthe had been flirting with Lucien for as long as I’d known her, and probably long before that. Lucien never seemed interested, though, and, much like always, he walked away before she could start in.

Ianthe sighed and winked at me before chasing after him, and I was left standing alone in the corridor of Alis, the only sound the soft rumbling of her impulse drive.


	4. Chapter Two: Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feyre and Lucien have an honest conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: rating has now increased
> 
> note: sexual content is present in this chapter

Lucien found me slumped between two cargo containers, my finger on the neck of a half-empty bottle of home-brewed Westerley liquor—hock, we called it back home—that was resting on the floor between my bent legs. I extended and retracted my index finger, causing it to lean dangerously forward before rocking back upright.

If I were to push it just a _bit_ harder, make it tilt just a _bit_ farther from center, rock it back and forth with just a _bit_ less caution, the bottle would topple over and shatter into hundreds of little pieces. Fragmented and impossible to form back together.

“And here I was thinking _I_ was the drunk on the team,” he laughed.

“Piss off, asshole.” I was proud of how threatening I sounded.

Undeterred, Lucien wedged himself in next to me, taking up the valuable real estate I had previously been using to let my knees hang wide. My groans of protest went unnoticed as he settled in, finally snatching the bottle out of my grip and taking a swig.

He winced the second the alcohol hit his tongue. “I see we’re not wasting any of the good stuff tonight,” he coughed, swallowing hard.

“No one said you had to drink it,” I grumbled.

“Now what kind of friend would I be if I let you knock back rocket fuel all by yourself?” He bumped my elbow with his in what I’m sure was supposed to be a reassuring gesture.

“That’s a strong word,” I said, eyes fixed on something in front of me, deliberately ignoring his playful gaze.

“I dunno,” he joked dramatically. “I’m pretty sure this stuff could degrease engi—”

“I meant ‘friend,’” I interrupted, tone biting.

For a moment he didn’t say anything, the only sound between us the dull hum of the impulse engines.

“Yeah,” he finally agreed, rolling his tongue between his teeth. “That’s fair, I guess.” He brought the bottle part way to his mouth, paused, and then brought it the rest of the way. He gulped twice before coming up for air and balancing the container on his thigh.

Some forgotten voice in my head told me I should feel bad about that remark, but I couldn’t be bothered to care.

“You just… stood there,” I said after an uncomfortable silence. “Like you always _just stand there_.”

“I—”

“He’s wrong, and you know it!” I’d intentionally waited for him to respond just so I could cut him off, knowing his first instinct would be to defend Tamlin’s actions after we’d returned from Prythian. “You know it and still you let him think he’s justified!”

Lucien’s face was unreadable as I chanced a side-long glance his direction.

“It’s gotten to the point where I can’t tell whether he’ll want to kiss me or reprimand me!” I continued, my frustration punctuating each and every word, but I felt numb inside. Empty. I wondered if Lucien would be able to see that the outward anger I was projecting was partially an act.

And then I realized that I didn’t care. Again. That seemed to be par for the course these days.

 _You didn’t used to feel like this,_ a tired, weakened piece of me whispered. I didn’t care enough to listen.

“Sometimes I don’t think he actually wants me to take get certified.”

It was the only thing standing between me and legitimacy—and also the ability to take on my own Warrants. The thought had crossed my mind once or twice that his previous delays had been of a self-serving nature, but that thought had stemmed from a selfish place, an angry place. He wouldn’t do that. We were a team, after all, and legitimizing my role would only benefit the four of us.

 _He’s just concerned for my safety,_ I reminded myself. Even in my rage I could see that his discouragement came from a place of love. At least I thought it did…

“I don’t think that’s entirely—”

“He’s suffocating me, Lucien,” I interrupted. And then—softly, honestly— “I can’t keep living like this.”

Lucien brought his lips back together, unwilling to challenge my ultimatum.

He’d known Tamlin for longer than I had— _much_ longer. Their lives had been intertwined for upwards of a decade, putting my meager fourteen months to shame.

I’d figured out bits and pieces of their story as the weeks had dragged on, but neither of them had ever consciously revealed more than cursory details to me. They refused to talk about it at all, actually. What little information I’d gleaned came from public records and eavesdropping on hushed conversations.

I knew that Tamlin had been in the military and that Lucien had been his subordinate. I knew that they had been part of a specialty corps. I knew that many of their brothers hadn’t survived. I knew that they’d both received honorable discharges shortly after their battalion had encountered the threat that claimed so many of their lives. I knew that Tamlin blamed himself for their deaths, though Lucien shouldered the weight of that burden, as well. I knew that they’d become Killjoys not long after their release from the service. And I knew that Lucien trusted Tamlin’s judgment above all else—even when he was being controlling and secretive.

Once I passed my test and received my own access codes for the RAC databases, I’d be able to learn more, most likely. Rather detailed profiles on all active Killjoys were kept on file and made freely available to other agents, not that I was expecting to learn much. Their secrets seemed of a more personal nature, something which wouldn’t be contained in a personnel file.

My voice was small, tired, when I said, “He listens to you, Lucien. You’re the only one who can challenge him and _win_.”

The moment the words were out I knew I’d said the wrong thing. Winning implied this was some sort of game. It implied that Tamlin was playing with our lives.

“You know he only acts that way because he cares.” True to form, Lucien immediately came to his friend’s defense. I wondered if it was even conscious—his support of Tamlin—or if it was some just some pesky, lingering reflex from when he was his friend’s subordinate. Whatever the reason, it was moments like this when I wanted to curse him for his unwavering allegiance.

“I know.” I softened, my shoulders going lax as the will to fight—to scream and yell and claw and _hurt_ —abandoned me. “But I can handle myself.” I sounded small; small and defeated.

“As you’ve proven time and time again… but he always fears the worst.” Lucien’s brows creased thoughtfully as he tried to decide whether or not he wanted to say what was on his mind.

“Out with it,” I prodded, swiping the bottle off his thigh and taking another swig.

“He hasn’t been the same since our—” he paused, choosing his next words carefully before continuing, “—our experience with Amarantha.”

So he _had_ noticed the change in Tamlin. To my knowledge, Lucien trusted exactly one person. He’d been wary of me for the better part of a year, and he still routinely avoided Ianthe despite working with her for five times as long. For him to call into question his unyielding loyalty to Tamlin meant something was… off.

I took another sip. “Yeah.”

He dropped his forearm in front of me, palm open, asking for the bottle again, but his eyes stayed fixed forward. When I didn’t immediately hand it over, he turned to look at me, and I saw indecision clouding his gaze as the muscles of his jaw clenched and unclenched in time with his breathing.

It had hurt him to admit that, to admit that Tamlin might be in the wrong.

I angled the bottle of hock towards him, letting him reach the rest of the way to wrap his fingers around it. He nodded, focus blurring as he considered our words fully.

“Yeah.” Lucien brought the bottle to his lips and drained the remaining eighth of the liquor in one long pull.

 

* * *

 

I had been silent when he’d knocked at the door, had turned away when it slid open, had tucked myself under the sheets and turned out the light in lieu of a greeting. I didn’t want to argue again, and it seemed like all we did now was argue.

He wordlessly curled against me on the bed, arm draping over my waist as he pressed a gentle, cautious kiss to my skin in the space between my shoulder blades and laid a simple rose-gold cuff on the pillow next to my face. A peace offering.

Presents were the language he spoke when he couldn’t find the words to express the depth or sincerity of his regret about something he’d said or done. When he’d first taken interest in me, presents had been small ways to show his interest or brighten my day. Now, more often than not, they preceded an apology, and I’d begun to hate them—to hate what they stood for.

My fingers ghosted over smooth, raised lines that wound like vines over his forearm—a reminder of the weeks he’d spent as Amarantha’s pin cushion. Despite the atrocities, I’d escaped with very few physical injuries—none of them long-lasting. Lucien and Ianthe, too. Tamlin, however, had not been so fortunate. In the days following Amarantha’s death, we’d learned that there were some wounds that even nanites couldn’t repair.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, lips lingering above that spot on my upper back as he tugged me a bit closer.

“I know,” I said after a few torturous seconds. It was a risky reply. I knew he was looking for me to mirror his apology and my lack of reciprocation could’ve set him off again.

 _Maybe that’s what you want,_ a cruel voice whispered inside me. I blocked it out.

But all he did was nuzzle the expanse of skin between my ear and the top of my shoulder.

He truly was sorry, then.

Twisting my body so I was facing him, I brushed my nose against his as our eyes met. Hesitantly, he tilted his chin towards mine, a silent question as to whether or not I had forgiven him.

I considered, for the briefest of moments, turning away. Would he still be sorry if I wasn’t willing to move on? Would his gentleness disappear if I rejected his apology? Would he ply me with more jewels until I softened?

I never found out because a heartbeat later my lips had closed the distance to his and we were both lost to our desire to forget about the chaos and ruin around us—to return to a time when we’d wanted nothing more than to make love and imagine what our future might look like together.

Briefly, a thought gripped me—about how I’d stopped imagining that future together—but I pried its talons away before they had a chance to truly take hold.

His mouth moved against mine, tender and sure, as he tangled his fingers in my unkempt hair. Tamlin pulled me on top of him, silken sheets dragging over the exposed skin on my legs, and nudged the thin strap of my nightgown over my shoulder. His lips broke from mine and brushed featherlight against my collarbone, sending pulses of heat straight to my core.

I reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it over his head and revealing the true extent of the damage Amarantha had wrought on his body. It had been weeks, and we’d been together a number of times, yet I still wasn’t used to the sight of the grotesque scars that snaked over his right side. From wrist to shoulder—and part way across his chest—the lines stretched, brutal and terrible. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be used to seeing them… or used to the way the ruined flesh felt under my touch.

“I love you, Feyre,” he murmured, settling his weight between my hips, and I lost sight of the anger I’d felt so strongly just hours ago. “More than I can bear at times.”

I could understand that—the protective, almost smothering concern which manifested as a result of the love he felt. However unfair I judged his treatment of me at times, he did it out of worry for my safety, out of fear that I might again be taken from him.

And I could almost even forgive it.

_Almost._

He trailed idle, fervent kisses over my breasts and stomach, pushing up my nightgown so his lips could connect with bare flesh, and settled himself lower on the bed, hitching my legs over his shoulders. The sight of him like that, focused and deliberate with his slow teasing, all but set my skin aflame.

I moaned, the sound catching in my throat and sending a rumble through my chest. Tamlin snarled in approval when his fingers pushed aside the thin scrap of fabric covering the space between my thighs to find I was already slick and wanting.

We’d always been better at this, better at letting our bodies say what our minds and mouths couldn’t or wouldn’t.

The first swipe of his tongue had me writhing underneath him, and it didn’t take much more for me to fracture completely, his name tumbling from my lips, the only word I knew, the only fragment of my existence I _cared_ to know.

He crawled his way back up my sated form and shoved his pants below his hips, letting his length—hard and insistent—press against my entrance.

“I love you, too,” I whispered, and he sheathed himself in one long, slow stroke, filling me completely.

The rest of it was all teeth and tongues and bodies rucking against each other until we were both spent and limp and fighting the pull of sleep.

His warm, steady hands around my waist was the last thing I remember feeling before the darkness claimed me, dragging me under.


	5. Chapter Three: Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feyre is reminded of her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: graphic descriptions of violence appear in this chapter

_It’s the only way,_ I told myself over and over and over. But it wasn’t right— _killing someone_ wasn’t right.

 _“His life for theirs’,”_ Amarantha had offered, promising to finally free my team from her control if I agreed to carry out a Level Five Warrant—in the loosest sense of the term—on a bothersome rebellion leader. _“Oh, please,”_ she’d mocked, taking notice of my revulsion at her request. _“He’s a bad man. This is a wonderful deal.”_

Tamlin and Lucien and Ianthe had stared back at me, eyes pleading—begging that I would commit this horror for them, that I would shred my soul so they might live, that they might be spared from further torture.

No one on our team had the clearance for a Level Five, and yet she was requesting it of me—me, the sole member who technically wasn’t even a RAC Agent of any level. Then again, maybe that’s why she was having me do this. If I was caught, there would be no complicated political mess from which to untangle herself.

 _It’s the only way,_ I repeated. Maybe if I said the words enough I would believe them.

If I’d had time, I could’ve found another way—could’ve bargained, could’ve strategized, could’ve done _something_ to save their lives while not damning someone else’s in the process.

But there had been no time. She’d made sure of that.

“ _Choose.”_

Intentional. It was intentional. The way my insides roiled at the idea of taking another person’s life—she was getting perverse pleasure out of trapping me into doing this, and I could do nothing but hang my head and say, brokenly, _“I accept.”_

I clenched the knife between my fingers, the hilt heavy as lead and cold as the ice fields of Arkyn.

 _“Oh, and Feyre,”_ she’d sung after me as I strode from the room. I’d turned to face her slowly, knowing the lilt in her tone could only mean that she was about to demand more of me.

 _What more could you possibly want?_ I’d thought, shattered and wanting to just be done with it—be done with _her._

 _“I’ll need you to pick something else up while you’re there.”_ She had made it sound as though I was visiting a nearby port to trade rather than going to assassinate the leader of a rebellion. Her cruelty was truly remarkable.

A data drive, she’d explained. _“You’ll find it hanging around Oriel’s neck. He never lets it out of his sight, the bastard.”_

Every muscle in my body revolted against me—begging me to stop, to turn around, to walk away while I still could—as I crept up behind the broad-shouldered, red-haired rebellion leader. He didn’t look like a bad man, as she’d said he was. He didn’t look like the cruel, power-crazed General she’d warned me about. He looked… normal—peaceful, even.

Perhaps I could reason with him. Perhaps we could figure out a way to make it look like the assassination attempt had been successful. Perhaps he didn’t need to die. Perhaps—

He unexpectedly whirled and locked eyes with me.

_He’ll scream for help. He’ll call for his followers. He’ll alert everyone to my presence. He’ll—_

Steel met flesh before I realized what I was doing, and any opportunity he’d had to cry out was taken, replaced by strangled gurgling sounds as his own blood flooded his lungs, choking him from the inside. The red hot liquid seeped onto my hand, soaking into my shirt sleeve, before dripping onto the ground.

He fell, convulsing at my feet as his body fought and fought and fought and—

Stilled.

Nothing was worth this. No amount of information or leverage or treasure was worth this price.

My footprints stained the grey stone floor a bright, angry red as I backed away, eyes transfixed on the horror in front of me—on the life I’d stolen.

There was so much blood… _so much, so much, so much, so m—_

Wide, terrified eyes stared up at me as I spun around to see who I’d bumped into, and I knew in an instant where I’d seen those features before. Green eyes, red-brown hair, thin lips. The man they’d come from was lying in a pool of his own blood meters away, lifeless and entirely too pale—those same eyes fixed open, hollow and so utterly dead.

I could see the scream building, watched the way her jaw dropped open to release the sound, and then everything came to a screeching halt as she tried again and again to suck in breath that just wouldn’t come.

I felt the heat of it coating my hand before I saw it—the blood pouring from her chest, from the hole left by the knife I’d sunk into the space between her ribs, into her heart.

A daughter—she hadn’t told me about a daughter. He wasn’t supposed to have any family. He was supposed to be the only casualty.

I pulled the knife free of the young girl’s chest, feeling it scrape over bone and cut neatly through muscle, and she crumpled to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, bending down to place my blood-stained palm over her forehead.

Her body seized, trying to breathe and fight and _live_ for just a few more seconds, but then the injury won out and she went limp, her eyes drifting shut permanently.

“I’m so sorry,” I said again, a droplet of water splashing onto her blood-soaked skin. Then another. And another. I realized they were tears— _my_ tears. It somehow seemed wrong to cry, to grieve for a death that I had caused.

I smoothed my fingers over her hair, much as a mother might, as I said a silent prayer for her soul. If the Mother was indeed real, I hoped she would take pity on this young girl.

Her eyes flew open, milky white replacing the vibrant green from earlier.

I startled, flying backwards from her corpse and losing my grip on the blade that had been her undoing.

 _This isn’t right_ — _This can’t be_ —

She lunged toward me, and—

 

* * *

 

I awoke with a soundless scream, manically pushing myself backwards on the bed as I tried to escape the warped memory. My stomach churned, and I was barely able to fling myself out of bed and dart to the washroom before I retched.

Every muscle in my body strained, and I gripped the toilet seat and heaved, emptying the the contents of my stomach.

_Those eyes._

Those cloudy, lifeless eyes.

The nightmare had been plaguing my dreams for weeks, and I was lucky to get an hour or two of restless sleep. Some nights I gave up altogether, resigning myself to pouring over data logs or cleaning rifles or cataloguing supplies or… anything but sleeping. Anything to avoid seeing those eyes… or being reminded of what I’d done…

My stomach clenched again, though nothing came of it. I wiped the back of my wrist across my brow, clammy sweat coating my skin, and flushed the dregs of my last meal out of sight.

Tamlin didn’t stir from his position on the mattress. If he knew I was awake, he gave no indication. He’d chosen to stay after we’d made love. That wasn’t always the case. Most nights I slept by myself, in fact.

I pulled myself up and leaned over the sink. Cold water drummed against the fevered skin of my hands, and I splashed some on my face before taking several long drinks to try and erase the taste of bile from my palate.

He was just a heavy sleeper, always had been, to my knowledge. If he knew the extent of my nightmares, he would wake and sit by me until I was calm enough—or exhausted enough—to fall back asleep.

My gaze drifted upward and I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror above the basin, only I barely recognized my features.

 _Have I always looked this… sick?_ Purple crescents framed my dull, tired eyes and there was a hollowness to my cheeks that I’d never noticed before—though I suppose not many people looked their best after just hurling their guts up.

I slumped against the shower, leaning my cheek against the cool metal dividing wall which separated the small alcove from the rest of the room, and focused on taking deep, even breaths.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

Soothing night enveloped me, calming my breathing and relaxing my tensed muscles. I let it take me, let it pull me into its embrace as the ever-present hum of Alis’ impulse drive lulled me back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

I’m not sure how much time had elapsed between when I passed out and when I emerged from the washroom, but, by the time I did, Tamlin was nowhere to be seen. Some small, forgotten part of me cried out that it wasn’t right, that he shouldn’t have left me to battle my demons by myself. But then I remembered, as I always did, that Tamlin had demons of his own, that I wasn’t the only one who’d been tortured by that viper.

I strode onto the bridge, careful not to draw too much attention to myself. Ianthe noticed me before I’d gotten far, though, and threw a cheery greeting my way. I returned it, but without nearly as much fervor as she’d shown.

Lucien was confronting Tamlin about something when my eyes found them. I couldn’t tell what, exactly, was causing Lucien’s face to scrunch so tightly because for once in their lives they were actually whispering.

“We can continue this later,” Tamlin cut him off, aware of my presence and keen to save the discussion for another time. Then, to me, “Feyre, you up for some light burglary?”

“As long as no one tries to shoot me this time around,” I joked, “then yeah.”

Tamlin winced but continued anyway. “Good. We just got assigned a Level One.”

It was as if nothing had ever happened. As if I hadn’t spent the better part of the night sprawled on the bathroom floor. As if he hadn’t awoken this morning to find I wasn’t there. As if we were both whole human beings capable of picking up right where we’d left off months ago, before we’d known the pain Amarantha had brought into our lives.

Maybe he refused to acknowledge that broken piece of me because acknowledging it meant admitting that Amarantha had somehow managed to win even though she’d been killed. Maybe he remained stoic because he knew that confronting the horrors we’d faced outright would likely lead to both of us refusing to ever again come out of our respective quarters. Maybe this was his way of helping me heal.

I tried to smile. Level One warrants had always been my favorite. People were difficult to retrieve—loud and uncooperative and sometimes undeserving of their fate—but objects… Objects didn’t call you a bitch or fight back or have several bodyguards. Objects were easy.

Lucien eyed me knowingly when my show of enthusiasm was a mere shadow compared to my normal exuberance at securing a reclamation contract.

I stretched my smile wider, hoping that it looked sincere. “When do we leave?”

 

* * *

 

“Hey.”

Maybe if I kept walking he wouldn’t follow me, wouldn’t try to talk to me, wouldn’t scratch at the wounds that were still too raw—too recent.

 _Those eyes..._ I shuddered.

“Hey, wait up.” His footsteps came quicker as he closed the distance between us.

I had to fight to not break out into a run. I couldn’t do this right now. I didn’t _want_ to do this right now.

“Feyre, wait,” Lucien called again, finally catching up to where I was and wrapping his fingers around my wrist. I almost yanked my arm back on instinct but instead turned to face him head-on, some approximation of a smile firmly in place—a mask I hoped he wouldn’t be able to see straight through.

“What’s up?” It wasn’t really a question, at least not the way I said it.

“What was going on back there?” he asked. Whether he was choosing to ignore my discomfort or he simply didn’t see it to begin with, I wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my tone falling just shy of civil.

“Cut the crap,” he ordered, the soldier in him breaching the surface. “What was that?”

Some creature in me stirred and I wanted nothing more than to claw his eyes out for presuming to know how and what I was feeling.

“It’s nothing,” I shrugged, mouth turning down briefly in an attempt to sell the act. “I’m fine.”

“Lying is Ianthe’s forte,” he admonished, words slicing through me and making me want to lash out.

My nostrils flared and my fists shook as controlled breaths filled the space between us.

“Mind your own fucking business,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

“I’m not your enemy, Feyre.” He wasn’t quite yelling, but he wasn’t being gentle with me either.

Lucien’s stare was like the light from a star, unyielding and constant, and the force of it kept me rooted in place. I met his unforgiving gaze with one of my own—daring him to push me further, to see just how far I would bend before breaking.

I pulled myself back from the edge, willing my voice to sound steady as I said, “I had a nightmare, is all.” Maybe if I could make it seem like I was unaffected, he would drop it.

A crease formed between his brows and his voice went soft, concern shadowing his features as he breathed, “Still?”

That creature deep inside me reared back, offended. I was not some fragile, breakable thing. And I certainly didn’t need his pity.

“Feyre,” he began, “maybe you should talk to someone about it.”

“I’m handling it,” I said, voice devoid of emotion, each word clipped.

“Feyre—”

“I said I’m handling it,” I interrupted, tone more forceful this time.

“Yeah?” he said in disbelief, brows raising as his chin jutted forward sharply, accusingly. “You’re handling it?”

The words had been meant to sting, meant to make me recoil. Ever since I’d known him he’d been adept at disabling people in the most efficient way. It appeared that it was finally my turn to be on the receiving end of that particular skill set.

“Is that why you’ve got permanent dark circles under your eyes? Is that why your clothes are fitting looser? Is that why I can sometimes hear your screams at two in the morning?”

The muscles in my jaw worked hard as I fought to maintain my composure. Then, with resounding finality, I said, “We’re done here.”

“Feyre, wait.” His hardened mask shattered, and he looked like he might regret what he’d said. “I didn’t mean—”

The rest of his words were lost as the door to my quarters sealed shut behind me, and it seemed he had enough sense left to not follow me inside. Lucien was many things, but stupid was not one of them.

I busied myself with preparing for the trip to the surface, laying out and cleaning  various weapons and lock-picking equipment I’d amassed over the years. My fingers mindlessly fiddled with a cartridge for my blaster, thoughts elsewhere as I let muscle memory drive my movements.

I wouldn’t feel sorry. I wouldn’t.

And yet.

I felt a twinge of guilt as I remembered the harshness in my tone and the way his eyes—even his bionic one—had reflected nothing but concern. But he didn’t— _couldn’t_ understand.

And he never would.

Amarantha had held him prisoner, but she hadn’t… _damaged_ him the same way she had Tamlin and me. He would forever be stuck on the other side of a viewscreen, able to observe but never truly understanding. He was lucky that way.

I returned my focus to testing the sharpness of one of my shims, putting thoughts of Lucien—of his knowing gaze—out of my mind.


	6. Chapter Four: Arkyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feyre meets a rival team of Killjoys with quite a nasty reputation.

It was my first time seeing them—seeing _him_ —since the day I… since the day Amarantha had been defeated. Three-and-a-half months, it had been. Fifteen long, sleepless weeks.

He was wearing a well-tailored black suit and his hands were tucked in his pockets as he stalked around the perimeter of the room, and it was an effort to draw my gaze away from him.

‘Room’ was a generous description of this place. Holes big and small decorated nearly every meter of the walls and ceiling. Tattered curtains hung over some of these unintentional windows, the icy desert breeze from outside causing the dingy fabric to ripple and sway.

 _Arkyn._ The planet of dying hopes and imprisoned devils.

The lack of exterior charm this place possessed was made up for by the personalities of its loyal patrons, many of whom were leaning against waist-high tables near the bar or reclining in chairs with their feet propped on the nearest piece of furniture. From the looks of them, I had expected hostility and random violent outbursts, but they were and did nothing of the sort. It was as if this place—this tavern—was a neutral territory, a safe haven where feuds and alliances were checked at the door.

Conflict, it seemed, was not welcome here.

It amazed me that no one dared challenge that rule, that all were willing to play nice and abandon their personal grievances for the duration of their stay—especially since most of the people on this desolate rock were exiled violent offenders.

Ianthe and I had mingled among the customers in the hopes of gathering information about the location of a certain black-haired ruffian with only one ear. Thus far it had proven to be a waste of time, but Rhysand wouldn’t have made the trip if there wasn’t something of value in this run-down, cesspool of a town.

Musical was the word I would’ve used to describe Morrigan’s movements. There was an elegance to the way she glided between the chairs and tables as though she were dancing. And her dress. I’d only ever seen the Prythian elite clothe themselves in such unpractical garments. A gown as beautiful as the deep red one she’d selected seemed so out of place here in a tavern that couldn’t even afford proper walls.

The woman I’d been speaking with—a grumbling, hardened mercenary—went silent when she noticed the way my gaze tracked the woman weaving toward us. And then she saw me.

The mercenary made a thoughtful noise before swiftly standing and leaving me alone, at the mercy of Morrigan’s interests.

“Feyre…” she sang delightedly, “fancy meeting you here.” The grin she gave me was positively predatory.

The blonde sank down in the seat opposite me, and I couldn’t help but wince as I recalled our last meeting a couple of months ago when she’d given me a black eye. To be fair, it had mostly been an accident, but I still reeled at the memory.

“Morrigan,” I acknowledged, silently praying that Ianthe would notice the intrusion from wherever she was positioned and come to my defense.

“Now what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” To anyone else it would’ve sounded like we were simply exchanging pleasantries, but I heard the words for the warning they were meant to be. _Get out now_ , she was saying. _Leave while you still can._

Rhysand and the other men on his team prowled through the crowded tavern, lingering every few steps as though they were searching for something—or some _one_ , I realized.

It was rare for multiple Warrants to exist in the same place at the same time, and so both Morrigan and I sat silently trying to determine what possible reason the other could have for being here. Some part of me already knew why they were here, though—that, if confronted, they’d admit to being given the exact same Level Three Tamlin had secured a few days ago.

“The landscape was just too beautiful to pass up,” I supplied, knowing she would see my words for the lie they were.

The entire planet was nothing more than a glorified garbage dump, housing exiled criminals from every corner of the Quad and toxic waste from corporations unwilling to pay the lofty fees required to properly dispose of the stuff. It wreaked havoc on the environment, turning the whole planet into a pressure cooker.

There was a prison on the other side of the desolate rock, and no one dared venture within a hundred mile radius of the compound. Rumors of unfortunate “accidents” kept most curious parties away, and I’d never been in a position to investigate further. Nor did I have any desire to. I was content to deal in simple find-n-fetch contracts, though Tamlin’s clearance meant we did occasionally take on Transfer Warrants and other not-so-safe jobs.

The one with quicksilver for eyes noticed me from where she stood across the room, and a chill ran down my spine. She looked human enough, though I knew she was anything but. Stories of what she was and from where she came circled amongst the bounty hunters, of the sector, though none were brave enough to confront her outright about her origins. Most of the tales seemed to be more fiction than fact, but no one—neither an official RAC Agent nor a bottom feeder from the Network—dared press her for the truth.

And now, being this near to her, I understood why.

I shifted my attention back to Morrigan—back to the one I could look at without wanting to turn on my heels and run. She seemed to be gauging my commitment to the mission, trying to find a weak spot in my resolve—somewhere she could jab and force me to forfeit.

“Cheeky,” she chided, but her words lacked bite. Seconds passed and still I refused to budge. “Tick tock, Feyre,” she warned.

Whatever Rhysand was planning to do was going to happen soon, apparently, and I was running out of time to make myself scarce. He had everyone cornered, and I suddenly wondered if the rumors about him sending severed heads as gifts to those who’d crossed him were true… I gulped, hoping the stories had been exaggerated, hoping that some echo of the man who’d saved me was in there somewhere.

Desperately, I scanned the room once more in search of Ianthe, but she was nowhere in sight.

 _So I’m going to have to do this alone, then._ I knew I should’ve been at least a little bit scared, but all I felt was determination.

I gave Morrigan a tight lipped smile before standing up and, in my best drunk voice, shouting, “Rhysand!? Rhysand is that you?”

That got several people’s attention, and all at once the element of surprise he’d so clearly been banking on disappeared, like atmosphere vented from an airlock.

“Rhysand,” I keened, hoping to see the name evoke a reaction from someone in the room, however unlikely it was that their mark knew who’d be coming for him. If Rhysand really was as brutal as Tamlin made him out to be, his name alone should start a chain reaction of panic in the minds of any guilty party here. If I was lucky, the man I was searching for would be among them. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!

People from across the tavern had taken notice of us now, and three or four were headed directly for the exit. They had all bristled at Rhysand’s name, slugging back their drinks as quickly as possible before making to leave. I studied their faces, narrowing my focus to the one without a left ear. He wore a ratty grey trench coat and black military style boots. If I could manage to get out of here relatively soon, I was sure I could track him.

Rhysand had turned his head, and I noticed the way he fixated on the same man I had. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Feyre darling,” he returned, no trace of annoyance anywhere in his features. “Lovely to see you again.”

I’d always been cautioned against getting close to him, warned that he was utterly ruthless in his execution of Warrants. Tamlin and the others had frequently said how he and his team couldn’t be trusted—though they would never specify _why_ —but this marked the second time I’d been in close proximity to him and I felt no such fear. The creature inside me—the one that had kept me alive more times than I could count, the one that growled warily every time Ianthe was near—may as well have been in hibernation.

“Sorry to ruin your game of cat and mouse.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say you ruined it,” he purred. “Only extended it for a little while longer.”

“You’re not upset?” I did a poor job of hiding my surprise. He was much more adept at masking his emotions than I could ever dream of being.

He quirked his head to the side—barely moving at all—as he raised his brows in brief amusement. “On the contrary. I quite enjoy a good, old-fashioned chase.” His voice was liquid honey, inviting me in closer, daring me to play his game. “You made my evening interesting again.”

“Considering your man just ducked out about twenty seconds ago, you might want to get chasing,” I said calmly, testing out my theory about our mutual target while ignoring the muted alarm bells in my head telling me to put some distance between us—the message Tamlin had instilled in me were I ever to come face-to-face with Rhysand or anyone on his team.

“Azriel’s got it covered, I’m sure.” There wasn’t a hint of malice in his voice. It was almost unnerving how unaffected he seemed. Tamlin would’ve flogged someone on the spot for interfering with a Warrant, but for all Rhysand’s reputation, he stood in front of me and spoke as though we were old friends.

He hadn’t bothered denying my accusation. In fact, he’d all but confirmed he, too, was looking for the one-eared brute. I held his gaze and, though I searched earnestly for any indication he was about to snap, I found none. His (admittedly handsome) face remained impassive save for a bemused smirk.

“Well,” I ventured, deciding to push my luck since I likely wouldn’t have another opportunity alone with the violet-eyed Killjoy, “since you seem to have some spare time on your hands…”

“What did you have in mind, darling?” he said playfully, adjusting his stance.

“Answers.”

He furrowed his brows, clearly displeased with my suggestion. “Pity. I can think of at least seven—no, eight—other things I’d like to do with you instead.” A wry smile curled up the edges of his mouth.

I tempered my urge to slap it off his face. “How did you find me when I—” I choked, unable to say the actual words “—that day?”

“Would you like to grab dinner while interrogating me?” he said hurriedly, and I couldn’t read the expression on his face. The smirk was still there, but… something else. Concern? That didn’t make sense. “There’s a ha—”

“How.” I wasn’t in the mood to play, especially without knowing how long we had until someone interrupted us.

He sighed, giving in to my line of questioning. “The beacon was helpful.”

“Why bother coming to my aid?” It was a fair question. Had our positions been reversed, I’m not sure I would’ve gone to the same lengths he had. “I’m your competition.”

“So you’re a real Killjoy now?”

“How did you—” I started, but then realized it would be quite easy for any RAC Agent to determine I wasn’t in the system. It didn’t matter. I worked alongside Tamlin, and, besides, I would be taking my test in just a few months. It was more of a formality at this point, anyway. “Answer the question.”

“I had no idea it was your ship,” he supplied, and he almost sounded bored.

“And what about _after_ you found out it was my ship?” It didn’t add up. Tamlin and Lucien wouldn’t be wary of him without good reason. And wary they were.

“I’m not heartless, Feyre,” he said dolefully, and the softness in his tone was so at odds with the skepticism in mine.

“Debatable.”

“Fine,” he sighed, and it sounded almost like defeat. “Would it be more plausible if I told you I wanted to see if you had anything of value stored on that microscopic little ship?”

That sounded more like the Rhysand I knew of—the one Tamlin had so adamantly warned me about. “Then why save me? Why not just put in for a C&C Warrant and leave me to freeze? Mother knows I was long past putting up a fight whenever you boarded.”

“Would you believe me if I said it was because seeing you like that nearly destroyed me?” The look he gave me was brutal, and I had to fight against some deeply buried instinct that was telling me to turn my eyes elsewhere.

“No.” I didn’t flinch, keeping that beast inside me on a tight leash.

He worked his jaw as he tried to find his next words, finally opening his mouth to reply when—

“Feyre, you okay?” Lucien had apparently wandered into the tavern, and his guarded tone and eerily even footsteps told me he was walking slowly toward me, cataloguing his surroundings as he moved.

“I’m fine,” I returned, not breaking eye contact with Rhysand.

“What’s going on?” The cautiousness in Lucien’s tone didn’t escape my notice, and I wondered what had him sounding so on edge.

“I think,” I said slowly, unsure, “that Rhysand and his team are after Terrada, too.”

“In most cultures it’s considered rude to tattle, Feyre.” Subtlety escaped him. Or perhaps _he_ escaped _it_. I couldn’t tell.

_Why not deny the accusation? Why relinquish the element of secrecy?_

“You have no right,” Lucien barked, ignoring Rhysand’s comment towards me. “This is _our_ Warrant.” There was a fire behind Lucien’s words, but also something else. Fear, I realized a moment later. He was terrified of what Rhysand might do, and he was hiding behind legal technicalities because of it.

“There seems to have been some mistake because I can assure you _we’ve_ been contracted to retrieve Terrada,” Rhysand returned, a small datapad pinched securely between his thumb and forefinger as he waved it in the air.

Lucien snatched the tablet out of his hand, and Rhysand curled his fingers in succession through the empty air until they were gathered in a loose fist. Then he held out his hand expectantly, asking me to provide him with documentation of our own. Reluctantly, I withdrew the requested datapad from the breast pocket of my jacket and practically flung it into his upturned palms. His arm dipped ever-so-slightly from the force I put behind the motion, though he didn’t seem the least bit deterred by my coldness toward him or his team.

Morrigan sauntered over, winking at me as she settled on a position just to Rhysand’s right.

“Much obliged,” was all he said in response before turning his attention to the language contained within the contract.

The blonde stepped in close to me, and the invasion of personal space was both unexpected and slightly unnerving.

“Love this jacket,” she said with jealous admiration, running her hand along one side of my asymmetrical lapel.

I regained my wits about me a moment later and slapped her arm away, recoiling from her touch and stepping back toward Lucien, back toward safety.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” Lucien scoffed, looking from the Warrant, to Rhysand, and back again.

I’d heard about Black Warrants before… I’d honestly thought they were a myth more than anything else—a way to get teams of Killjoys to perform their best even when completing dangerous or monotonous assignments. If something were of great enough value, and there was a high enough risk of a team of RAC Agents being unsuccessful, clients had been rumored to contract multiple teams for the same mission.

“I think not,” he said thoughtfully, brows altering between knitting together and arching as he read through the text on the Warrant. Upon finishing the last line, he turned his attention to me. “Feyre darling, it would appear as if our services have been double booked. How embarrassing.”

“Don’t talk to her,” Tamlin all but growled as he stalked into the tavern, positioning himself between Rhysand and me just as another member of Rhysand’s team—Cassian, I believed he was called—made it to where we were all clustered.

“Feeling a bit possessive, are we?” Rhysand’s dark-haired companion teased, and Tamlin went rigid.

“Tam, let’s just go,” I said before he could reply, stepping to the side and turning so I could place a hand over his heart. To ground him. To remind him that not everything needed to be a fight. “We can regroup on the ship.” If he’d bothered to look me in the eyes, he would’ve seen the silent prayer I kept repeating.

 _Please don’t make this worse_. Maybe if I thought it hard enough, he would hear me.

“Yeah, Tam,” Cassian mocked. “Go.”

I felt pressure against my hand as Tamlin’s muscles stiffened, but he didn’t take the bait. I hoped my glare was as unforgiving as I’d intended it to be when I turned my head and found Cassian’s amused grin. The glint left his eyes but a shadow of a smirk remained etched in his features.

_Asshole._

Rage blossomed through me as Rhysand winked—actually _winked_ —at me, as though this was all just some game, as though he _wanted_ Tamlin to react. And then I realized… he did.

If he could goad Tamlin into throwing a punch, our contract would instantly be voided. Useless. Hybern Corp. tolerated many things—abusers securing transfer Warrants for runaway victims, corrupt leaders purchasing kill Warrants for rebel fighters—but Killjoys turning on each other was not on the list of acceptable transgressions. Lucien had explained it one afternoon while he was helping me prep for the test.

“ _Prick,_ ” I seethed, and I knew he felt the sting of the word by the way the muscles in his jaw moved underneath his skin. I turned my attention back to Tamlin. “Let’s go.”

He ground his teeth and glared at Rhysand a moment longer before finally shuffling backwards a step. I dropped my hand into his, tugging him away urgently, building on his decision before he had the opportunity to change his mind.

“Good luck,” Cassian called after us, dry and irreverent.

I whipped my head around, ignoring the over-zealous sidekick and instead found Rhysand’s cool, even gaze. “This isn’t over,” I ground out through clenched teeth.

“I’d be disappointed if it was,” he mused, eyes alight with cold determination, stirring something underneath my skin and beckoning that creature within me to come out of hiding. “May the best Killjoy win,” he drawled, faux sincerity coating each word.

“Oh, I intend to.” I barely recognized my voice as the words escaped me. His challenge—because that’s what it was—awoke something in me, some fire that had all but burned down to embers. But I could feel it flaring now, feel the heat and adrenaline coursing through my veins, urging me to hold my own. I might not be a licensed Killjoy—not yet. But I would be. And I planned on being the best.

The wicked gleam in his eye told me he’d been hoping someone would stand against him, hoping someone would play his little game. Well, I was here to win.

 

* * *

 

I nearly sprinted up the ramp when we finally made it back to Alis, Tamlin and Lucien forgotten ghosts trailing behind me.

“Where the hells _were_ you?” I didn’t try to hide the contempt in my tone as I confronted Ianthe. She had conveniently made it back to the ship before us, leaving me to fend for myself in a crowded tavern without any allies watching my back.

“I followed a lead,” she supplied.

“To where!?”

“Just outside,” she said cooly, apparently unphased by my outburst. “I didn’t go far.”

“ _If you go solo, you get caught_ ,” I quoted, each word splinters aimed at her heart. “Isn’t that what you told me before we went down there?”

Tamlin and Lucien had finally found their way to us, no doubt hearing everything we’d said thus far. Tamlin bristled next to me, crossing his arms in the way he always did when he was thinking. Lucien leaned against a counter, mirroring his friend’s body position.

Something cruel and predatory flashed behind her eyes, but she blinked and then it was gone, replaced by a mask of patience. “You’re always saying how capable you are.” Her words were a slap in the face and she knew it. “I knew you could take care of yourself.”

“You abandoned me,” I seethed.

“I told you,” she said patiently, and it made me want to claw that pretty smile off her face. “I was working a lead.”

“Yeah?” Sarcasm dripped from the word, clinging to it like honey to cotton. “And what lead was that, exactly?”

“It didn’t pan out.” Dodge. She was dodging the question.

“I bet it didn’t,” I said flatly.

“Feyre, that’s enough,” Tamlin warned, and I could’ve screamed in frustration.

Ever since Amarantha—ever since Ianthe had been the one to dispatch the red-haired witch—Tamlin had given her the benefit of the doubt on _everything_. It was maddening. I understood that she’d effectively saved us all, but that didn’t put her above scrutiny or reproach, and I was fed up with him giving her a free pass.

“Yeah.” I clenched and unclenched my jaw, biting back the accusations that I knew wouldn’t accomplish anything except to paint me as paranoid. “It is.”

He tried, half-heartedly, to make me pause in my retreat. But he knew. He knew the message he’d sent—loud and clear—when he’d interjected on her behalf.

And I couldn’t stand to be near either of them.

Tamlin didn’t chase after me like a piece of me hoped he might. It was just as well. I would’ve torn into him and we’d be back to fighting.

Like we always were these days.

 _It’s better this way,_ I told myself.

I needed space to cool off. Needed space to remember that we were a team. Even when we disagreed, we did it for the right reasons. But for some reason this felt… different. This felt more like a betrayal than a difference of opinion.

It stung.

And I needed time to heal.

 

* * *

 

We received a notification a couple hours later that the status of the Warrant had changed.

 _Completed_ , the monitor read. _Terrada has been found and returned to the interested parties. Any further contact is not welcome._

_Well._

I guess that answered the question as to whether or not Azriel—whoever he was—had been successful at tracking down the one-eared gentleman who’d had the misfortune of being in the wrong tavern at the wrong time.

I should’ve gone after him as soon as I recognized him—but I’d been so keen to get some answers that the job had taken a back seat.

Selfish. It had been selfish to cast aside the team’s needs in favor of assuaging my own curiosity. And now we would pay for it in the form of joy.

There was a point in my life where that would’ve terrified me—the idea of missing out on a bounty that might provide me with enough money to pay my family’s rent three times over. But they’d become independent of me again, and I had no need of the extra income. And so it wasn’t terror I felt at losing out on the contract, but annoyance in myself for allowing a distraction to cost me bragging rights.

And frustration that Tamlin had very clearly chosen Ianthe over me when we’d returned empty handed.

It was easy to forget how many years they’d spent together—the bond of trust they’d developed over that period of time.

If anything, this was good.

A reminder that I was still the new member of the team, and, though we occasionally shared a bed, Tamlin was not bound to me in the same way I was to him. The bonds he’d forged with Ianthe and Lucien went far deeper—had been in existence far longer—than the one we shared.

And, despite the depth of our connection, it didn’t span years. We were still, in the grand scheme of things, very new.

Ianthe, though.

Ianthe was old. Familiar. Trustworthy.

And if I wanted Tamlin to see her for the deceptive snake she was, I’d have to come up with some rather damning evidence.


	7. Chapter Five: Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feyre expresses some concerns about a team member.

“I don’t trust her, Tam,” I said evenly, not censoring my thoughts despite the fact that Ianthe was in the room with us. I no longer cared if she knew I’d stopped buying into her bullshit lines about keeping the peace.

“Well, I do…” Tamlin responded. “You need to drop it, Feyre.”

“Tamlin, she was sending encoded messages to Arkyn!” In the two weeks since we’d failed to deliver on the Black Warrant, motivated by spite, I’d dug into Ianthe’s personal records and discovered that her extra-curricular activities didn’t add up.

She laughed, saccharine and vicious all at once. “Because my sister traveled there on a QUC-sanctioned trip, and I wanted to get her a message without the rest of the Quad being privy to what I told her about my personal life.”

It passed as believable given that her sister also worked for the Quad Unification Corps—a volunteer group, staffed by do-gooder children of the elite ruling families committed to establishing peaceful relationships between Prythian and the rest of the region. Members were known to occasionally extend their hand in kindness to even the demons of Arkyn, but... Ianthe’s tidy explanation had only served to make me question the organization itself rather than just _her_.

 _What was so important that it couldn’t wait until_ after _your sister was far away from that hellscape?_

Transmissions of any kind to Arkyn were automatically flagged by the RAC, regardless of who sent them. The fact was, there were too many dark souls imprisoned on that rock, ready to seize any opportunity made available to them, so precautions had to be taken—always. Travel to the planet was an entire other ordeal. _If_ you managed to clear the multiple security checks, a vast ice-covered wasteland awaited to freeze the flesh from your bones.

‘Inhospitable’ wasn’t a strong enough word.

Hells, _we’d_ only gone there out of absolute necessity—and only because the bounty for that Warrant had been substantial.

I clenched my fist and felt the metal of my bracelet dig into the muscles of my forearm ever so slightly.

“Is that why the transmission traced directly to The Prison?”

There were a number of prisons across the Quad, but this one was home to the worst offenders—men and women who’d sooner carve out your lung than shake your hand. Nearly everyone kept in the facility had murdered dozens—some far more. And though QUC members sometimes ventured to the populated areas on Arkyn, none ever got within fifty miles of The Prison.

“There must’ve been some bug in your tracking software,” she said evenly, but I heard the slip in her tone, the threat and fear laced in the words.

“Oh, I very much doubt it.”

Tamlin shifted, looking at me as though I’d just shoved her into a wall. “Feyre—”

“No, Tamlin!” Too long had he been defending her. Too long had I ignored the way she put me on edge. Too long had we excused her actions because her allegiance lied with the QUC rather than the RAC. And in the months since Amarantha, too many times had her miraculous victory over the woman been lauded as some permanent reason to give her the benefit of the doubt. “She’s lying to your face and you’re too blind to see it!”

“And where’s your evidence?”

 _How is he so calm? How is he so unaffected by this news?_ “I just said—”

“That she sent a transmission to Arkyn," he said slowly, as though he were speaking to a child. "And she didn’t deny it. She’s not hiding anything, Feyre, you’re just being paranoid.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re seriously taking her word over mine?”

“From where I’m standing”—he crossed his arms a bit tighter—“she’s done nothing wrong, which means your accusations are bordering on harassment.”

“Tamlin, no one sends an encoded message to a detention facility if they have nothing to hide.” Perhaps I’d been too aggressive with my allegation, but anyone could see that something was off about Ianthe’s behavior—regardless of whether they were her friend or not.

“And what did the message contain?”

“I don’t know,” I said dryly. “It was encoded.”

“This could all be put to rest if we simply had Ianthe show us the message in question,” Lucien contributed, idly recalibrating his earpiece, apparently unwilling to sit on the sidelines any longer as Ianthe and I went toe-to-toe.

“That seems reasonable,” Tamlin agreed, and all eyes were suddenly on Ianthe.

She huffed nervously. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Show us the message,” I said triumphantly. She didn’t have time to alter the datalog. Soon her camoflauge would falter and Tamlin would see her for the puca she truly was. There were fangs hidden behind her coy smile—and an agenda far more twisted than she had ever let on.

She’d been with the QUC for nearly a decade, but she was dangerous. Anyone capable of burning another human being to ashes—as she had done to Amarantha—was capable of committing unimaginable horrors.

An image of Amarantha’s smoldering, unrecognizable corpse flashed in my mind, and I winced at the memory. She had tortured us all, and I was  _glad_ to be free of her, but that fate... 

“This is a violation,” she bit out, voice dangerously low.

“Please, Ianthe,” Tamlin coaxed, and I wanted to roar at the gentleness embedded in his tone. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

She looked to each of us, as if committing our betrayal to memory. “Fine,” she spat, snatching a datapad off the counter and punching in her personal codes. We all crowded around her, unsure of what we would see.

Dates and timestamps blurred together as Ianthe scrolled to find the entry in question. She had to type yet another passcode for the message to become visible—a precaution only taken to protect content people wished to keep secret—and then small blue letters lined the screen.

I tore through the words, searching for the proof I knew to be hidden somewhere among them.

_Sorry for your loss… Autumn will come around soon enough, and then Winter will follow... We will get through this and come out stronger…_

It was an ordinary letter.

Something about it tickled the back of my mind, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t pinpoint what was off about it. The mention of the seasons was strange, considering both she and her sister were QUC envoys and rarely stayed on one planet for more than a week at a time, but it was a common enough way to discuss the passage of time.

“No, there must be some mistake,” I said in disbelief. There was no way someone would encode a simple letter. It had to be more, had to _mean_ more. “She must’ve altered the file.”

“Feyre, enough,” Tamlin said tiredly. “She showed us the log, and it’s just as she said—a letter to her sister.”

“No, it’s fine. I get it.” Her hostility from moments ago had dissipated, replaced by reassuring calm and understanding—the uniform of a QUC member. “I would’ve suspected the worst, too.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, unwilling to fall for the charade. She might’ve had everyone else fooled, but I refused to turn a blind eye. “You are unbelievable.”

Lucien brought his hand to his ear, pressing a button on the communicator to accept the transmission. He listened thoughtfully before looking at the three of us. “This is our window.”

“Feyre,” Tamlin ventured, and the way he said my name made me nervous for what was to follow. “I think it’d be best if you sat this one out.”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.” The hardness in his eyes told me he wasn’t.

“Tam—“ Lucien tried to interject, only to be silenced.

“I’m completely serious.”

“She’s _lying_ , Tamlin! How can you not see that?” Even if she wasn’t outright endangering us, her actions reeked of duplicity, the stench singeing the edges of my senses. _Why_ couldn’t he see it? _Why_ was he still taking her at her word?

Ianthe made her way towards the front of the house and Lucien reluctantly followed, leaving Tamlin and me alone in the back room.

“We’ll talk about this when I get back,” he said softly, kindly—but with a lethal harshness to intimidate me out of responding.

He turned away, taking smooth, even steps over the threshold, and pressed three buttons as soon as he was clear of the doorway. I wasn’t sure what the effect was supposed to be, but I marched toward him, determined to make him see the truth, make him believe me.

“No, we’ll talk about this _now—_ ” I collided with an energy barrier, bouncing off harmlessly as Tamlin continued to walk away. “Tamlin,” I breathed in disbelief. “Tamlin, you can’t be serious,” I said, beginning to understand the finality of his actions.

He refused to look at me, to acknowledge the look of anguish clearly reflected on my face.

“You can’t leave me in here like some animal!”

Lucien spared me a glance, regret swirling behind his eyes as he was torn between following his friend—his _captain_ —or standing up to him. He chose the former, ducking his head in shame as he took heavy steps over the threshold.

“Tamlin, _please!_ ” I called, but my protests fell on deaf ears.

When I finally focused on her, Ianthe’s lips were unmistakably curled up in a smile. Her fingers reminded me of claws as she moved them in a farewell gesture just before striding after the men.

I wanted to bash her face in.

 

* * *

 

There was a cruel irony in Tamlin’s choice to confine me to our safe house—a place we retreated to when we needed to escape the threats of our livelihood. Not to mention my role—my _identity_ as a member of his team—was defined by my ability to break into the places other people mistakenly assumed to be secure. I’d freed myself from restraints and all manner of cells dozens of times. After all, breaking out of somewhere wasn’t so different than breaking into it.

But there was no weak spot in the electric grid surrounding this room. No panel I could unhinge to cause a short-circuit in the wiring. No bricks or tiles to pry loose. No way to free myself.

Even my handy bracelet was useless without an access point to an electrical port. If only I could—

And suddenly a terrifying thought crept into my head.

 _What if something happens? What if they don’t make it back?_ _What if I’m left here in this prison?_

I prayed to the Mother they were taking precautions while meeting with the informants, trying—and failing—not to think about the limited food stores or the way my stomach was already insisting I was well overdue for a meal.

 _They’ll be fine,_ I told myself. _They’ll be fine._

The invisible wall trapping me in the room hummed in front of my face as I sat slumped with my back against a bed frame—one of the only pieces of furniture in the whole apartment.

“What have we here?” a sing-song voice drawled. I tilted my chin up to see a blonde-haired Killjoy twirling a blade between her fingers, each step silent as the vacant lot outside. “Press the wrong button?”

“I’m not in the mood, Morrigan.” If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with Tamlin’s betrayal—of his choice to use these shields to hold me hostage as if I were a mark—I might have been surprised by her entrance. As it was, I couldn’t bring myself to care since it wasn’t like she could actually get to me.

Morrigan considered me for a long moment before loosing a resigned sigh. “No, I suppose you’re not.” She sat down opposite me, the soft hum of the force field buzzing in the air between us. Mercifully, she didn’t press me for information or question me about my current predicament further.

I grit my teeth in the silence, waiting for her to say something else but ultimately realizing she wouldn’t. “How the hells did you even find me?”

“I can’t give away all my secrets.” Though even as she was saying the words she tapped on the lapel of her form-fitting jacket. I reached for the twin spot on my own coat, turning the edge of the fabric over to see a circuit-rich sticker the size of a fingernail. How or when she’d managed to plant it on me, I wasn’t sure, though I suspected I’d been tagged during our last encounter.

I didn’t say anything and neither did she, content to let me process the information in whatever way I chose.

“They left me…” I said weakly, gulping down my my humiliation, my disbelief. “ _He_ left me,” I corrected, and I hated the way my voice broke over the words.

“His mistake,” Morrigan replied flatly, staring at her nails in disinterest as she ran her thumb over her manicure to wipe away flecks of dust and grime.

“I can’t believe he actually chose her, chose that… that… _snake_ over—“

“Would you like to continue moping,” she cut in, pausing so I would look at her fully, “or would you like me to bust you out?” She withdrew a compact pair of pliers from her breast pocket, and there was a sincerity in her eyes so at odds with the playful smirk on her lips. I didn’t know what to think.

“What’s the catch?” I asked warily.

A grin spread across her face. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	8. Chapter Six: The Velaris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feyre adjusts to her new surroundings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: content warning for self-harm at the end of this chapter

One week, she’d said. One week with them was the price of freedom.

I didn’t understand why that had been the deal, but I was so desperate to be free that I’d agreed almost without hesitation. The initial price had actually been two weeks, but I’d managed to haggle my way down to only one.

Their ship was… different than I had imagined it to be. Given their outward dress, I had expected any vessel occupied by Rhysand and Morrigan—Mor, she’d told me to call her—to be decorated just as lavishly, but this space was anything _but_ polished. Metal supports were visible everywhere we walked, and the floor was nothing more than a grate, wires and cables responsible for powering the ship visible just underneath our feet.

Mor had just given me an unofficial tour of their craft—the Velaris, she’d called it—and was leading me down a barren hallway, blue-tinted lights illuminating our path.

“You’ll be sleeping here, but you’re free to move about the ship as you’d like.” Her steps came to a halt, and she motioned to a set of doors just ahead of us. “I’d suggest steering clear of the starboard hallway, though. Amren considers that entire side of the ship to be her quarters and tends to get a bit grumpy when people linger.”

I had expected to be sequestered in their brig for the duration of my stay as a precaution—to prevent me from skipping out early or seeing too much. I imagine I sounded shocked when I asked, “Aren’t you worried I’ll just spy for Tamlin?”

“Don’t insult yourself,” she huffed.

“I—“

“Food’s down the hall, third room on the left.” She tapped the door frame twice in farewell and made to leave, only to change her mind a moment later. “Oh, and… don’t eat the oatmeal. Cassian adds…” she trailed off, considering her next words carefully as she rolled her jaw to the side. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth once she’d decided on the appropriate description, “ _Extra protein._ ”

“Extra protein?” I questioned, brows raised.

“Maggots,” she said flatly.

I thought I might vomit right there. It was suddenly a blessing that I hadn’t eaten a meal all day.

“No oatmeal,” I gulped. “Got it.”

Mor disappeared around a corner, headed off to Mother-knew-where… which meant I was officially on my own. I took a deep breath and pressed the button to open the hatch to my quarters, resigning myself to the fact that, for seven days, I would be staying on a ship that didn’t even have proper floors. I pressed my eyes shut, not wanting to see what fate awaited me in terms of a bed.

The hallway had been bare, practical—but my room was... was...

A rainbow of color assaulted my vision as I took in art from across the Quad that decorated the walls—paintings and small sculptures and a display of jewelry that could’ve belonged to a queen. A thick, cream-colored duvet covered the massive bed, and pillows of all manner were scattered about; some with beading so intricate it looked to have taken months to complete.

I’d never seen a room like this on a ship—at least not any ship I’d ever been allowed to set foot on. It was fit for royalty, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the other living quarters looked like if this was simply the guest room.

A closet—at least two meters wide—was built into the wall, and I took sure steps over to it. Shrugging off my jacket, I slid open the door and selected one of the empty hangers from the rod. After I’d draped my coat over it, I placed the hanger back, noticing the collection of fabrics in front of me.

I’d been wearing the same clothes for upwards of twelve hours, and I didn’t see the harm in changing into that delightfully soft peach blouse that now hung next to my pitch black jacket. I snatched the shirt, stripping off my old one in the process, and tugged it over my head.

It was softer than anything I’d ever felt—like a cloud had wrapped me in its embrace. The only people with clothes like this lived in the palaces on Prythian. I wondered just what kind of Warrants had gotten Rhysand and his team access to this type of luxury—wondered, but didn’t care enough to let it stop me from enjoying the feel of the fabric against my skin.

I swapped my pair of pants out for fresh ones as well—opting for tight-fitting midnight blue leggings that complemented the peach tone of the blouse nicely—before stepping back into the hallway. Mor’s promise that I could explore if I so desired was a siren song dancing along my bones, and I could no longer resist the urge to catalogue my new surroundings.

I was unsure about where to venture to first until my stomach rumbled insistently and made the decision for me. The mess hall, or, more accurately, mess _room_ was small but well-stocked, carrying multiple kinds of rations as well as fresh produce and other organic treasures likely picked up from the surface of Vallahan. I'd only visited the planet a few times, but I knew it was the only place in the Quad that grew fruits and vegetables; the soil in other places was barren.

The oats Mor had warned me about were visible through a half-filled clear canister sitting on the counter. I was rummaging through the cabinet above the sink when a smooth, shadowy voice behind interrupted my search. “You’ll want to avoid the oatmeal.”

I nearly jumped at the intrusion, not realizing I wasn’t alone, and almost dropped the container of dry-packed food I’d been holding. A man—tall with dark hair and wearing leather armor—stood leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said apologetically, though I wasn’t quite sure that I believed him. “Name’s Azriel.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond—what I should do when first meeting a core member of a rival Killjoy squad—so I gulped and settled for offering him my forearm in a traditional Westerlyn greeting. That was neutral enough. People did that all the time.

Only Azriel clenched his jaw and tucked his hands more securely under his arms. I thought he might refuse me altogether—might balk at the uniquely identifying gesture of the Westerlyn natives confined to an uncultured planet—until he finally slid his right hand free and gripped the space just below my elbow.

And then I realized why he’d initially hesitated.

Angry, devastating burns covered every inch of exposed skin, the marred flesh eventually disappearing under a leather armguard, and I wondered just how high those scars traveled. The ripples and patterns were different from the ones I’d seen on Tamlin’s skin, but I recognized their nature all the same. What awful thing had caused such marks? Had he truly had been burned so badly that not even current medical technology could heal the wounds properly?

“Feyre,” I said, tearing my gaze from his ruined flesh to meet his eyes—hazel and observant. He released my forearm a moment later, arms re-crossing over his chest in much the way they had been moments ago.

“Welcome,” was all he said in reply. And then he was turning to leave, seemingly satisfied with our interaction.

_Bizarre._

Slowly, I picked the box of rations up off the floor from where they’d fallen earlier and returned them to the cupboard, instead settling on a peach resting in the large bowl on the counter. I hadn’t eaten one in years—not since Father had brought one home following a trip to the agricultural hub of the Quad—and I doubted I’d have another chance anytime soon to eat one unless I took a trip to Vallahan and traded for one myself.

I sank my teeth into the fruit, relishing in the way its juices coated my chin, and continued my walk down the corridor. Shiny, polished silver caught my eye, and I strode toward it, unthinking.

A veritable shrine lined the walkway, with jewels and mirror-like metals leaned against the wall opposite a set of sliding doors, much like the ones that marked the entrance to quarters I’d been assigned. I ran my fingers along the edge of a platinum-toned necklace inlaid with quartz the color of living flame.

_The bounty for this alone would be enou—_

“What are you doing?” a small, dangerous voice asked, and I whirled to find a petite, black haired young woman standing only a meter or two behind me.

My eyes met the depthless pools of mercury swirling in hers, and I knew that with half a thought she could end me where I stood.

 _“I’d suggest steering clear of the starboard hallway…”_ Mor’s warning from earlier echoed eerily in my mind, and I was just about to take off running when a second voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Amren, don’t terrorize our guest.” Low, teasing laughter reached my ears as the last member of Rhysand’s crew found us, sauntering over as though he were striding through a throne room.

“I’ll do as I please, _Illyrian_ ,” she sneered, hurling the world like a dagger at his amused expression before turning squarely and sealing herself in her quarters once more.

“Feyre, isn’t it?” he said confidently, addressing me.

“Yeah.” Something about his grin was infectious. I had to fight to not smile back at him, though the memory of our last interaction—the way he’d tried to provoke Tamlin—acted as a bucket of ice water, and I easily shifted my face into an unimpressed scowl.

“We’ve met before,” he said with an air of confidence that caused my temper to flare. “I’m—”

“Cassian,” I finished, tone flat. “I remember.”

“Always nice to make an impression.”

He was actually proud of himself. _Asshole._

“That’s one word for it, I suppose.”

One of the lights overhead flickered, as if it was nervous about what response Cassian would give to my challenge.

“Careful now,” he warned, a slight edge to his voice. “Don’t go starting something you can’t finish.”

I raked my eyes up and down his body, frowning slightly. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

He crossed his arms, widening his stance as he furrowed his brows and gazed at me with a newfound interest. “Do you always go around picking fights with strangers twice your size?”

“It’s my favorite past time.” I was probably playing with fire, but I didn’t care. Whatever punishment he was capable of doling out would be nothing compared to what I’d already gone through.

There was a faint tic in his cheek. “We might make a Killjoy out of you yet.” I could’ve sworn I heard something akin to admiration in his words.

Mirroring his posture, I crossed my arms over my chest and shifted my weight onto one leg. “It’s none of your business what I am or what I’m not.”

A faint mechanical hum filled the space around us, echoing off the bare metal bulkheads and resonating in my core.

“Right.” There was that stupid smirk again.

I waited a beat, using the silence to glare at him pointedly. “So what’s your job exactly?”

“I’m sorry?” He raised his brows, squinting at me in confusion. I’d caught him off guard. _Good._

“I mean, do you actually do something around here or do you just walk around being a dick to everyone?”

“Generally speaking, it’s the latter,” Morrigan supplied as she turned the corner, interrupting whatever response he’d been about to give. “Ignore him, Feyre. He’s just moody because Rhys kicked his ass earlier when they were sparring.”

“He did _not_ ,” Cassian corrected, but the way he readjusted his arms told me otherwise.

Mor rolled her eyes dramatically, and it felt so familiar—so casual… so unlike how I’d interacted with anyone on the Alis. “Speaking of Rhys, he needs to talk with you about something. He’s waiting for you in his room. Turn left, it’s the second door down.”

 

* * *

 

Morrigan had elected not to give me the code for the door to his quarters, so I was forced to dumbly stand outside, waiting for him to come fetch me. I was just about to turn to leave when the door hissed open and Rhysand greeted me with a wicked grin that sent a shiver down my spine.

 _Mother above, he’s beautiful._ I’d thought it the first time I’d ever seen him, and it was still just as true. Prick though he was, he had a face that could’ve been sculpted by the Mother herself.

“Feyre darling.” His voice was smooth. Melodic, even. “Please,” he gestured, nearly dipping into a bow. “Come in.”

Taking careful, slow steps, I crossed the threshold, keeping my eyes on him until I was finally able to register my new surroundings.

I had been a fool to think my room was opulently decorated. This… _this_ was opulence.

A luxurious four-poster bed sat centered against the far wall, midnight purple sheets spilling off the sides to accent the dark wood of the frame itself. Over the headboard hung abstract art of some sort—three triangles with just as many spiked dots above them—that shone silver in the dim light of a dozen or so candles scattered about the room.

Soft music played from hidden speakers, and I couldn’t place the rhythmic drumbeats or the language being sung over them. It sounded wild, yet… peaceful.

Somehow, the decorations managed to remain below the threshold for gaudy—but just barely. I spun in a slow circle as I took in the rest of the room, trying not to let it show just how overwhelmed I was by the breathtaking extravagance.

“You wanted to see me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Indeed.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and followed me across the room as soon as he’d successfully closed the door.

I couldn’t bear it any longer. There had to be some explanation for the wealth surrounding us. “How do you even afford this?” I grumbled, tempering the awe that undercut the severity of my tone. It was an accusation, plain and simple, and I knew he understood it as such.

He considered me for a moment, those deep violet eyes searching mine. “I hope Cassian didn’t ruffle your feathers too badly.”

“How did you know—”

“I know Cassian,” he supplied, cutting me off and effectively changing the subject. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you for agreeing to this.”

“Thank... me? Morrigan—Mor,” I corrected myself, “was the one who—”

“Be that as it may," he said quickly, "I know coming here sends a certain message.” He sounded almost apologetic, like he knew what awaited me were I to— _when_. _When_ I returned.

I shifted my feet, taking interest in a particularly vibrant painting mounted on the far left wall—greens and blues; a splash of yellow.

“But now that you’re here,” he continued, “I have a favor to ask.”

Little flames flickered around us, and I considered what life he'd lead thus far that such displays were common. Judging by the trails of wax growing down the sides of the candles, he lit them regularly.

“I’m listening,” I said cautiously, meeting his eyes once more, my voice guarded.

“We accepted a Level One that requires… well, you.”

No. No way. I would be spitting in Tamlin’s face—on everything he’d done for me and my family over the past year. “I work with Tamlin and Lucien.” My decision to omit Ianthe’s name from my response was intentional, and if he picked up on it, he didn’t say anything.

“We just need your help retrieving one little thing. Then you can go back to running errands for loverboy.”

“I don’t—” Arguing with Rhysand was pointless, and feeding into his game only benefitted him, but I wasn’t an errand girl. “Never mind. Just one mission?”

He grinned, shadows dancing over his features. “Just the one.”

I considered his request, what agreeing to it would mean for me. Tamlin valued loyalty above all else, and this…

“What do I get in exchange for helping you?”

“A sixth of the bounty,” he said, as though it were obvious. “It’s only fair.”

I had to stop myself from audibly gasping. Rhysand was offering me an equal cut—something Tamlin had yet to do in the entire fourteen months I’d been working for— _with_. Been working _with_ him. It made sense; I wasn’t a full blown Killjoy—yet—so there was no reason for me to receive the same pay as someone who was.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” he said easily, and the look of patient understanding in his eyes almost had me agreeing to it right then.

I managed to take one, then two, then three steps forward, past him, finally reaching the door and pressing its release.

“Oh, and Feyre,” he called just as I was walking across the threshold, “that color looks delicious on you.”

The last thing I heard before the door hissed shut was low, rumbling laughter.

“Prick,” I cursed under my breath, stomping back to my quarters to change yet again—to get as far away from this wretched shade of peach as quickly as I could.

 

* * *

 

The water stung my skin, steam rising in great clouds as I washed the layers of the day from my body.

I’d left him. I’d actually left him. He would be so hurt upon returning and finding me gone. A part of me took pleasure in that, in being the cause of his pain. He’d _locked me up_ and left me. Like a petulant child.

I ran the washrag over my torso, a few of the bones feeling more prominent than they had in years. Not since the months just before I’d turned to taking on small, slightly illegal reclamation jobs out of necessity—out of the need to survive. Not since my father had gone bankrupt and damned us all to a life of poverty and, consequently, starvation—the life Tamlin had saved me from, had saved all of us from.

He could’ve easily turned me in and been done with it, but he hadn’t… He’d shown me some kindness when all I’d known was selfish brutality for years.

But kindness didn’t pay the bills. Kindness didn’t quell the hunger pangs on day three of only ingesting a bit of stale bread. Kindness didn’t get me a fair price on a hard won treasure.

Kindness had no place in Westerlyn slums.

But… he’d been kind to me when he’d offered me a job. And then again when he’d promised to help train me for the RAC exam. And then again when he’d spent his free time doting on me.

I still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to see past my hard edges and sour attitude, but he had, and somehow, in the greatest show of kindness of them all, he’d fallen in love with me.

And I was choosing to repay that kindness by offering my services to a competing team of RAC Agents.

I turned the dial against the wall, wincing as the water’s temperature increased until it was unpleasant.

_Traitor._

Scalding liquid rained over my neck and shoulders.

_You should be ashamed._

I braced my hands against the wall, letting the heat drown out my thoughts until all I could feel—all I could focus on—was the pain.

_You deserve worse._

I didn’t apply a healing salve before dressing for bed. The scratch of the fabric against my skin—red and raw—served as a distraction; kept me from dwelling on the betrayal I was thinking about committing or the faces of the innocent casualties that so often plagued my dreams.

They found me, though.

They always found me.

I awoke covered in sweat, darting to the washroom just seconds before I began to heave. And, just like so many nights before, I didn’t return to the bed.

A gentle chiming disturbed me again a few hours later, and I dragged myself off the floor to silence the alarm.

 _Oh-six-hundred._ Time to start the day.

**Author's Note:**

> join me on [tumblr](http://yalenayardeen.tumblr.com) for more space and angst.
> 
> thank you for reading!


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